At the Party
she told me, “You’re intelligent, but you need to work on your charm.”
It’s true. Now I try to make women mad. I think this is a result of losing my fear of the female.
I’m not sure how I accomplished this—a combination of immersion therapy
and learning, there is more bark in her bluff, than real teeth.
Although, I haven’t had my balls bitten-off yet, and thrown through the window of a moving car.
What would you do if you were driving the car? Make-up with your girlfriend?
To the brave one who reads these lines, PROCEED WITH EXTREME CAUTION.
Most of this advice is theoretical, because it comes from a man who likes to think
and with enough imagination, anything can seem terrifying.
She worked in a hospital, and told me her intimate stories of death.
“Mr. Johnson is charming—why can’t you be? He tells me I have a great ass, and that’s saying something—he’s been alive for 80 years.”
“What does that have anything to do with it?” I asked.
“He’s had lots of time to study, and he’s an A student.”
“Well, so am I—and I can tell you, there’s nothing special going-on down there.”
“Don’t look at my ass.”
“Well, you let Mr. Johnson do it.”
“That’s because he’s old, and no longer a threat. You don’t know the horrible harassment women have to put-up with on the streets.”
“Being leered at, for one, and being hit-on by strangers.”
“If they had money and good looks, you would like it.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is?”
“It’s terrible, being a woman. Men have it easy.”
“I guess I don’t have a period, except at the end of a sentence.”
“Why would you say that?”
“I’m a writer. It sounded good. I’m just empathizing with you. Isn’t that what women want?”
“You’re so ignorant. Men can afford not to know anything.”
“What about war?”
“What about it? Boys love to fight.”
I gave up trying to convince her of anything.
Love isn’t intellectual, and that’s why it works.